


The Good Old Way

by ishie



Category: True Grit (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 15:25:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5461421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishie/pseuds/ishie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I confess -- under great pressure from certain quarters -- that I was not entirely truthful in the telling of my quest to avenge my father's blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good Old Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chiswickflo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiswickflo/gifts).



> Thanks to my betas, who told me I couldn't fix it in post.
> 
> Chiswickflo, thank you for the opportunity to revisit one of my favorite characters of all time, and mess up her life a little more. I've pulled in some elements from the novel but nothing that doesn't jibe with the 2010 movie version. I hope you enjoy and have a lovely Yuletide! (Eta: I saw your AFK comment and want to say both that my thoughts are with you during what looks to be a stressful holiday, and that although you weren't able to enjoy the exchange to the fullest, it was a genuine pleasure to write for you! May your 2016 be full of joy ❤️)

I confess -- under great pressure from certain quarters -- that I was not entirely truthful in the telling of my quest to avenge my father's blood, especially as regards the events which followed that great adventure.

What you have read of that journey which I undertook in the company of the brave US Marshal and Texas Ranger in the winter of 1878 is an accurate and honest accounting of that ordeal. We pursued the wicked Tom Chaney into the wilderness and brought to his very feet the rough kind of frontier justice so often meted out in that territory. It is the Lord to whom vengeance belongs, but it falls to man to carry out His will.

There was no fraudulent intent to my publication of this tale, nor could it be argued that it was fraudulent in deed. It was as truthful as I could make any recounting with my own talent for writing and recollection. I did omit several events which were -- and remain -- too tender to share with an audience that can be only indifferent to them at best. Those memories are the province of those of us who shared in their making. I would keep them so. I believe that the Lord Himself would not begrudge me that indulgence. There are things in this world that are too precious for the sharing of them. To hold them up to the light of public scrutiny would be the greater sin.

However, I did commit my pen to paper in service of one lie. It was rather a large one if you examine all its many parts, though I believe it to be no mortal stain on my everlasting soul, whatever certain quarters may facetiously claim:

I did hear more of the Texas officer, LaBoeuf, after my return from the Indian Territory. I heard rather a great deal of him, more at times than I have ever cared to hear, and much of it from his own mouth. 

Mama was never the same since Tom Chaney killed my father in front of the Monarch boarding house in Fort Smith, Arkansas. It was as though the light went out of her world when she passed into the valley of widowhood. There was no consoling her, in word or deed, though many tried to lift her spirits and her faith. She raised us as well as she was able, though I was myself nearly grown already. Even under her light hand, Victoria and Little Frank both chafed. She was loath to do anything but "spoil the child," so it often fell to me to be their taskmaster and their discipliner. It was no easy thing and I did not enjoy it, except for the satisfaction gained from a worthy enterprise. Victoria and Frank have each thanked me for it, though it was many years coming in both their cases.

Ten years to the day from the loss of my arm, Frank married his sweetheart, Cordelia, in the Methodist Church in Dardanelle. The Presbyterian Church was not good enough for them, I suppose. I did not press them on their choice, beyond one or two reminders to Frank of how our father found such joy in his congregation. Cordelia moved into our house, with Frank, Mama, and me. It was a large house, with four bedrooms upstairs and two staircases. Victoria by this time was little more than a child herself, though she had moved to Little Rock with her husband and new daughter. I do not believe she will ever be other than "little more than a child herself." The world does not often impose itself on her and so she has no need to impose herself on it. Even now I rarely see her as they are a very important family in that city and much occupied with their business there, as I am with mine here in Yell County.

All of this is information of the most trivial sort. I do not expect that many will be interested in the intimacies of my family. No more than I myself am interested in the intimacies of theirs, would be my guess. However I have been assured by the reader for whom this account is intended that details of this sort are very highly prized as they are not easily "prised" from my lips in general discourse. The reader for whom this account is intended thinks very highly of this "witticism," which he has repeated in my hearing too many times.

Cordelia was the daughter of Hobert Ramsdell, who ran the somewhat prosperous grocery nearest to the courthouse. Like all members of that family, she was a tall, stringy sort of girl, who wore her hair in elaborate coiffures that did not suit her face. It is perhaps uncharitable of me to say so, owing as I am nothing approaching a beauty myself. But I have agreed to set down this tale in as bare a manner as it happened, and that has been my thought of the girl's appearance for almost all the time I knew her. Marriage to Frank has done nothing to dull her devotion to displaying the latest styles copied over from her magazines. I have told her many a time that she would be better served by a simple arrangement of curls and braids but she does not listen to me.

By the early summer after their wedding, Cordelia was as plump as a gourd and Little Frank had taken to indulging her every whim. No matter how tedious or ludicrous, he fetched and followed and pandered to her morning, noon, and night. She had barely to lift a finger but he was there to take her hand and put it back into her vanishing lap with a soft sigh. I do not mean to say that she was a lazy or slatternly girl -- she was a great help to me in keeping the house in order and to Mama as well. It was Frank who had got the idea in his head that he married a creature so delicate she could hardly lift a basket of eggs. Never mind that she first came to his attention covered in feathers and blood as she helped her mother slaughter chickens for the store.

Whether Cordelia was appreciative of all this bother, I could not say. I left the newlyweds to their billing and cooing and spent most of my days in town, seeing to my business at the First Western Bank. Mr. Joseph Bratton was then the manager of the bank, having come to Dardanelle in the summer of 1881 with his wife and children from the great state of Illinois. He was not a very good bank manager. Any and every layabout for miles knew that Mr. Bratton of the First Western Bank would give you whatever you asked for, provided you had a sad enough story to exchange for a tidy sum. I was made of sterner stuff, as many have said and which I cannot deny.

You will scoff, but I have long believed men to be the more sentimental sex, prone to rash decisions and susceptible to all manner of emotional pleas. Especially when it is not in their favor to be so.

In any case, by this time I had long since come into that money left to me by my father, and I had the California gold piece which Marshal Cogburn had recovered for me from Bagby's store in the Choctaw Nation. Though the sentimental value was far greater, it was the earthly capital which I needed. If I have previously led you into thinking of another fate for that gold piece, it was a necessary misdirection. I have learned my lesson many times over in how much to allow people to know about my business. Sharing my recollections as to the price of cotton or corn is necessary to setting the tone and stage for my tales. Sharing the value of my assets is not.

Together the gold and the money from my father made a tidy sum, which Mr. Bratton first helped me to parlay into a stake in the Fayette Hotel. This hotel occupied the corner opposite the courthouse and boasted fourteen rooms above a well-appointed restaurant with a tavern behind. As such, it catered both to those in town who could afford a bit of beef or beer and to the small number of travelers who chose to stay in our town for a bit of respite between journeys by rail or river.

All of this is readily available information. Ask any busybody in the state and you will get a summation of my life that does not stray far from these particulars. What they will not tell you is that I was able to turn my meager profits from the hotel into a sum large enough to purchase the whole enterprise outright. I was as Midas in the days of old, unable to put my hand to an effort without turning it to profit. But just as that king saw, there was little glory or satisfaction in the doing. When enough of that "filthy lucre" had accumulated, I used my not inconsiderable powers of persuasion -- and the lever of J. Noble Daggett's notoriety -- to convince the Presley widow to sell her inheritance to me and so I became the next owner of the First Western Bank. She had no objection, being that it was her worldly ambition to set up a grand house on the bank of some mighty river. She could have lived quite comfortably on the bank of the Arkansas where she already resided, but her dreams of grandeur would never come to pass in Dardanelle, industrious as it was. 

And so, though I was not fated to beat either of my siblings to the altar, nor even to pace them, I was the first Ross to turn a hand to earning my keep outside of our home. In fact, within a few short months, I was earning everyone's keep. Which is how little Victoria was able to feather her nest so abundantly upon her flight to Little Rock, and how Frank was able to woo a bride whose station some said exceeded our own, though I do not myself believe that to be the case. While the Rosses have never been mistaken for a high and mighty dynasty, we are all of us to the last man fine, upstanding, and God-fearing folk, as like to do for others as we do unto ourselves. There is nothing sinful in the acquisition of wealth, only in the greed which often accompanies it, and that is a burden no Ross has ever carried in their heart. If you have heard otherwise, you may be assured that I should like to know who spoke it to you.

It was early in June when I chanced once more to meet that great Texas popinjay, to borrow a colorful and largely accurate phrase from our mutual acquaintance. 

I sat at my desk in the office of the First Western Bank, as I did every day between the hours of two and four. On this particular afternoon, I was waiting for Mr. Bratton to collect the account book from one of the tellers. It was my custom to review these books weekly, but some recent discrepancies had come to light and I wanted to keep a watchful eye. While Mr. Bratton waited for a convenient time to remove the teller from the counter -- it was a particularly busy afternoon, as we were then the preferred distributor of wages for a number of steamboat companies in the Arkansas River Valley. If you have ever dealt with those miserly company men, you will know what a triumph this was for my little bank.

I kept busy during the delay by reviewing the application for a loan which had been submitted by the unfortunately named Mr. Odell Dell. His family was once one of the largest and most prosperous in Yell County, but since his parents' deaths, Odell had backed a number of foolish ventures. All that remained to him was the farm inherited from his mother's father and a pile of bills he could not cover. He offered little in the way of collateral and his prospects for repaying the loan were largely theoretical.

He huddled in the seat opposite mine, turning his hat in his hands and trying not to look hopeful. It was a battle he was rapidly losing. 

"The bank cannot extend this amount to you, Odell. To do so would be foolhardy in the extreme." I smiled a bit to soften the blow. I do not think it helped. 

"And you're never anything less than sensible, are you, Miss Mattie?"

I have been known to be foolish on rare occasions, but his bitter outburst needed no reply. I waited for him to gain control of himself -- I find nothing less pitiable than a man who thinks his dignity has been punctured when it has not. In my many years of dealing with the men of the world, though, I had learned better than to make this feeling plain.

"Surely there's something," Odell said when he had got himself together again. "I would not come crawling here to ask for help if I did not need it. You have known me since we were in our first dresses! We were never fast friends, but I did think of you as a sister in spirit in our liveliest times. Surely there is _some_ help you can give!" 

Odell's memory has never been particularly sharp. Curiously, it was markedly less so when the truth would not suit him. We were indeed babes in arms together, but rather than his rosy portrait of bosom friendship, I remember our long acquaintance as one of passing pleasantries punctuated by the occasional reminder that he and his friends found me sour and serious and plain. 

Still, though Odell lacked the sense the Lord gave a mule when it came to business dealings, he was a diligent steward of what land he still held. He was good to his family and to his hired men alike, and had been among the first to offer help when I returned from that sojourn to the territory in my somewhat diminished capacity. Perhaps there was a solution which had not presented itself to him. He had never been used to turning his mind to anything more complicated than buttoning on a new linene collar of a Sunday. It is not pride which directs me to own that, by virtue of my position and my holdings, I am far more attuned to those enterprises which could use a good man and offer a fair wage in return. Especially in so bustling a town as Dardanelle had become by that time.

Setting aside his application, I lay my hand flat on the desk. "I am not a sentimental woman," I began. 

There was more I meant to say, but I was interrupted by a furious burst of air from the doorway. 

"Hooraw," said LaBoeuf on the end of a gusty laugh. "You are still hoorawing all the livelong day."

I must admit -- because certain quarters demand it -- that I suffered a momentary loss of myself at the sight of him. I do not know how else to describe it. The sensation was entirely unlike any I have felt in the whole of my life, even in those moments when my life hung in balance. I must have gaped at him for a full minute, motionless, silent, unable to do so much as muster a single thought.

LaBoeuf moved into the office as though he belonged there. Gone were the trappings of which he had been so proud: the Texas slick's clothing, the banded gunbelts, the jangling Mexican spurs. He was dressed plainly in a trouser and coat. His hair was wet at the ends, but that cowlick of his still sprang up from the rest as though trying to escape. 

I found my words. "Mr. LaBoeuf, I will be with you as soon as my business with Mr. Dell is finished. Kindly remove yourself from my office."

"Oh, I think your business is concluded." He leaned over the desk to peer at the papers I was trying to keep from his view. My single hand was not much help in this case. Under his moustache, his mouth curved into that infuriating grin. "You were going to tell Mr. Dell here that because you are not a sentimental woman, you will loan him a share of his money and work out the details of his payment your very own self. Do I have the right of it?"

He did, as infuriating as that truth was. 

"Odell, it seems that Mr. LaBoeuf still struggles with how to act in polite company." I dipped my pen and scrawled a quick note to Bratton, telling him to authorize the first of several small payments to creditors on the Dells' behalf. Whatever was most pressing would be paid first -- Bratton would know better than I which of those that would be, and so I left it to his discretion. As I have said, he was not a good manager in any manner related to being sensible instead of softhearted, but when his tender feelings for his adopted community were not engaged, he knew his business well enough.

"Here," I said, sliding the papers toward Odell's eager, outstretched hands. "Talk to Mr. Bratton. He will help you arrange your lists of creditors into some semblance of order. Tomorrow, I will need to see you here in my office to discuss your payment terms. Can you spare the afternoon again?"

"Yes, oh, yes! Our Thomas is ever ready to see the back of me so he can act the man of the place." He dropped the papers in his haste to seize my hand and pump it several times in jubilation. "Thank you, Miss Mattie! You won't regret this!"

It took some doing to reclaim my hand from his grip. "I know I won't, Odell."

When he had gone, I spent several minutes tidying my already neat desk. I could feel LaBoeuf's eyes on me in every moment. He had taken the seat Odell abandoned and sat with his legs stretched out in front of him, his hands crossed over the slight rise of his abdomen. No rings glittered on his fingers, nor a token from a sweetheart on his watch chain. I only mention this because it was an observation I made in the moment. There is no greater import to it.

"You are not a sentimental woman, I believe you were saying?" There was more than a hint of laughter still in his voice.

My own voice came out rather starchier than I would have liked. It does not do to let a bully such as Mr. LaBoeuf know when he has "got your goat."

"You will find much about me to be altered from the girl you knew so briefly."

"Aww," he drawled, "I don't think that's the case. A little older, maybe. Taller, too, unless I miss my guess. You were already a tall thing then, though. Perhaps you have grown into your bones. But the fundamentals, Miss Mattie Ross of Yell County, the fundamentals of a person only solidify with age. The girl you were shapes the woman you have become, and you were anything but unsentimental when I knew you."

"That was many years ago." Stating the obvious has never been a productive measure, but in the case of lunatics and infuriating popinjays it is often the only course one can take. "You are much altered, I would wager."

He crowed. "Haw! A wagering girl now, are you? My, you have changed."

I was grateful that Odell had closed the door behind him, as I was sure that my face was as red as a coxcomb at LaBoeuf's teasing. He had clearly not fallen out of practice in the giving as I had in the receiving.

LaBoeuf sat a little straighter in his seat while I blew and blustered for a response. He changed the subject entirely, asking, "That cigarette machine on yonder desk, how much did that set you back? A pretty penny, _I_ would wager."

"If you would like one for yourself you have only to stroll down to Pfeiffer's and order one for yourself. You'd best hurry, he will be closing soon."

He did not take the bait. "Tell me: how many cigarettes have you rolled with it? It produces a fine and regular smoke, does it not?"

"I would not know. I do not smoke. It is a foul habit and one which I am glad never to have considered taking up."

"Then why do you have the rolling machine?" He did not gesture to my pinned sleeve, nor did he refer to it in speech, though he could have. Many did, and in far less gentle ways than the way his eyes rested there for a moment when he first entered the room.

When I did not answer, he spoke again. "Ol' Cogburn had a devil of a shake when he went too long between bottles, didn't he? If our adventure had gone for a little longer, I was considering searching out a still myself to keep him in good supply and steady hand."

I had never, in all the many years since our initial acquaintance, considered that LaBoeuf was a shining example of the Texas Rangers. His ineffectual pursuit of Tom Chaney had so colored my experience of him that I did not give him due credit for the skills he had nurtured and displayed. I did then, at last. He had taken one look around that office of which I was so proud and seen straight through to the heart of me. It is not often that my body or my mind acknowledges the memory of my lost arm and hand. My foot will never trod the path of self-pity. of that I am sure. But as we sat there, together for the first time in years, I could remember the weight of Rooster's tobacco sack in my hand, the feel of crisp paper around his dry makings, and the smooth contraction of my arm as I lifted the newly-formed cigarette to my mouth for sealing.

What LaBoeuf saw in my face at that moment, I have never asked. If it was a fraction of that which welled up in my breast, then he was witness to one of the most intimate moments I have ever shared with anyone not related to me by blood -- and not for the last time.

But he did me the kindness of not remarking upon it, then or since. Instead, he relaxed again and puffed out a little, "Haw!" before pulling a leather wallet from his coat and unfolding a stack of papers from within it.

"Pleasant as this has been, I am here on official Ranger business," he said, sounding as if that official business was every bit as much a pleasure. "There is a band of brigands making merry up and down the Arkansas after doing much the same from the Pecos to the Cimarron. Although I do not believe they intend to find Dardanelle ready for the plucking -- they have heard quite as much as I have of the toughness and moral character of the residents of these here parts, I am sure -- it would not be outside the bounds of reason to think they might run aground here if all other avenues are closed to them."

LaBoeuf finished unfolding the papers and laid them out on the desk between us, but did not remove his large hand from them so that I could read what was written there. Before I could demand he do so, he reached toward me with his other hand and tilted my chin up until I looked him in the eye.

He grinned, and winked. "How would you like to help me close a few of those avenues, Mattie Ross?"

There is little, I assure you, I have ever liked better.


End file.
